


The Only Living Boy In New York

by solisandluna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Castiel Whump, De-Aged Castiel (Supernatural), Family, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Learning to be Human, Mute Castiel (Supernatural), No Slash, Past Torture, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solisandluna/pseuds/solisandluna
Summary: Castiel manages to see, before it's too late, that Heaven's orders are no longer Holy or right. He brings Dean Winchester salvation and brings an end to Lilith before the final seal is broken. And yet for all this, he is punished and broken into tiny pieces. He manages to find the Winchesters with barely a glimmer of his Grace intact. Sam and Dean somehow have to try to give back to the person who has done so much for them; Castiel, who is neither human nor angel, but definitely mortal, whose body is eight years old, his innocence and naivety younger than that and who can't say a word.No slash. Lots of family/friendship feels. Set partway through Season 4, ep21.





	1. Fade to Black

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Apologies if this first chapter rambles on a bit. There was quite a bit that I wanted to establish before I brought Castiel into the story and I couldn't find a way of doing so briefly. Please enjoy the brotherly goodness of Sam and Dean for now until I bring in all the Cas whump.
> 
> Warnings: Some descriptions of violence in this.
> 
> No slash, purely gen with a lot of angst, hurt and feels.
> 
> Disclaimer: Naturally, I don't own anything
> 
> Flashbacks in italics.
> 
> Title from the song The Only Living Boy In New York, by Simon and Garfunkel

_He was falling. He was skyrocketing through the stratosphere, his grace burning up around him, sparking and guttering, and then exploding in a cascade of brilliant, pure white, casting off in an eruption of flames. He was slipping in and out of the ethereal plane, falling too fast to control it, his wings pinned to his back by the sheer velocity, his primary feathers fluttering uselessly as he plummeted downwards. He could feel his essence being torn away from him, his grace ripping away in shimmering spools. The cosmos was spinning around him, his Father’s world a beautiful, glittering blur. At some point he would be below the Earth and the two would collide and he would break into a thousand tiny pieces._

_Sanctuary._

_The thought came unbidden, but he couldn't stop repeating the word over and over._

_Sanctuary._

_Sanctuary._

_He_ must _find sanctuary._

_But who on Earth or in Heaven would give sanctuary to a creature like him, an abomination-_

_Sanctuary._

_Cast out by his family-_

_Sanctuary._

_Defiler of sacred prophecy-_

_Sanctuary._

_Beyond forgiveness-_

_Sanctuary._

_Beyond hope-_

_The thread of thought that he had been clinging to became lost as his mind fractured, cracks spiring across his psyche like breaking glass. He tried to grasp it, but his thoughts fluttered into oblivion as memories overcame everything. He was a fledgling, wings soft as snow and smoky grey; he was learning to fly, wings flapping desperately as Gabriel clutched his sides, laughing at his efforts; he was pulling the Righteous Man out of Hell, mourning how wretched the man’s soul had become and he could feel the hellfire singing his feathers; he was watching resolute skepticism dissolve into disbelief as the shadows of his dark wings emerged behind him, for he must make Dean believe, must make him see; he was being asked by the Boy With  Demon Blood to see his wings and reminding himself that Sam Winchester could not be trusted even when eager and earnest; he was soaring across the skies of his Father’s world, wondering why it had to end; he was being held down by Zachariah, pinned to his stomach, crushed by the weight as Michael poured holy oil onto his wings and set them on fire._  

_His wings suddenly snapped open and Castiel screamed. The smouldered remnants of holy oil clung to his feathers and skin, blood and grace bubbling from half broken quills; the force against them felt like it was reigniting the fire and his wings burned with unending agony. His brothers had held him down and set him on fire, listened to him beg and cry and scream and still set alight the most tender and beautiful parts of any angel, and watched as he was driven nearly mad from the pain. He had since slowed down now that his wings were picking up the resistance, but the pain was unbearable, his burnt and tattered skin felt like it was being ripped apart. He cried out like a wounded animal, his desperate howl echoing across the vast emptiness of space and was answered by no one._

_Despite the pain, his fall had been slowed and he remembered, remembered his thought, a last, selfish mission for a dying, selfish creature._  

 _Sanctuary._  

_Even if it was only to spend his dying moments there._

_With all of his efforts, he forced the remnants of his wings to move. He couldn't spend energy on screaming, his grace bleeding out in great billowing streams. There were things he was going to lose if he was going to make it, everything he was was in his Grace. If he could even hang onto a tiny speck of it, it would be a miracle. He could feel his physical shell change in ways he didn’t understand as the Earth came to view, his grace very nearly spent, every fibre of his being burnt up, his entire being turned into energy, forcing himself to fly-_

_Towards sanctuary._  

_Towards the Winchesters._

_Towards Dean._

-

 

_Three months before the fall_

 

-

Dean had nursed bad hangovers before. In fact, he was pretty sure that in his time, he’d suffered from the big bad bastard king of all hangovers, but that big bad bastard was about to be dethroned, because he’d just been hit over the head by its successor. His head felt like it was about to be split open, like somebody decided to ram a red hot poker right through his skull and leave it there til his brains were ready to pop. There was a hot, throbbing burning behind his eyes and an all too familiar ache clinging to his bones. His tongue was sandpaper and his hands were clammy. The light in the room couldn’t be all that bright, but it still pierced his eyelids like the goddamn sun. The memories of last night didn’t immediately surface (which was never a good sign, he couldn’t even remember what he’d been drinking) and thinking was just too much effort when everything was so bright and damn painful. Besides, the details didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he felt like complete and utter shit. His trusty old bottle of Jack had chewed him up and spat him back out again.

“Bobby, how long has he been out?”

 _Ow!_ Jesus, hadn’t Sam ever heard of using his inside voice? He was right freaking here! He winced and then hissed at the sickening ache squeezing his eyes shut brought him.

“Found ‘im before you started flinging yourself ‘round the room like a goddamn baseball.”

Scratch that. Compared to Bobby the Fog Horn, Sam was practically whispering confession in church.

“And he wasn’t hit on the head or anything?”

Well, that certainly was debatable. 

“Not as far as I can tell. Just sat in a chair in the yard. Looked like he’d decided to take a nap and he just didn’t wanna wake up.” 

He heard a door open and he groaned as light flooded in, bringing up an arm to shield his eyes. Great. More light and more sound, to hammer that poker in a bit more and split his head open. Just what he needed.

“Jesus,” he rasped, swallowing thickly in the attempt to muster the last drops of moisture his body had to offer to his mouth, “can’t a man die in peace?”

“Dean!”

Dean winced and hissed as Sam’s voice went through him like toothache.

“Sam, will ya keep it down?!” he huffed, his body refusing to comply and sending all the moisture he had left down to his palms instead, “you’re about to split my head open.”

He heard the door shut and then the sounds of curtains shutting and he breathed a sigh of relief, lowering his arm. The darkness of the room dulled the searing burn of his headache to a slightly more manageable ache.

“Thanks. You got any water?” 

“You’ll have to sit up for that,” he felt what could only be Bobby’s hand, calloused and firm on his upper arm. He was beginning to wonder whether it was a hangover because he couldn’t remember ever having a headache this bad from drinking before. Pain exploded as he moved, searing from the base of his neck all the way up to his forehead and he yelled out in spite of himself. He’d never let something as simple as a migraine stand in his way before, but this was nearly screaming levels of pain he was reaching.

“Okay, easy son,” Bobby’s voice had lowered to the mere husk of a whisper. He said something inaudible to Sam, who then slipped out of the room with the muted quiet of padding feet and the click of the door. The rim of a glass pressed against his lips and he drank as slow as he could manage, knowing that chugging it wouldn’t do him any favours.

“What is it?”

“My head,” he grunted, grateful that his mouth no longer felt coated with sand, “feels like it’s gonna split in half. How drunk did I get?”

“You didn’t,” even though dry and quiet, Dean could still pick up an undertone of concern in Bobby’s voice and he realised that the hand hadn’t left his arm, “you were sober when I left you and when I came back you were out cold. Don’t you remember what happened?”

“Sorry, until you can get the barbed spike out of my brain, my memory’s out of commission.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, that bad.”

The door opened again and Dean could tell that Sam was doing his absolute best to be quiet. He wasn’t even sure if the kid was breathing. Something damp and cold was laid delicately over his eyes. He hissed at first in surprise, then slumped against the pillows in relief. Aside from the water, it was the best damn thing that had happened to him so far this shitty morning.

“Thanks Sammy,” he sighed.

“Don’t mention it,” he felt the mattress dip with his brothers weight, presumably perched on the edge, “Can we give him painkillers, Bobby? I don’t know when he last ate.”

“Well, he’s been unconscious for two days and there was only so much I could do for ‘im foodwise without shoving it down his throat. So no aspirin till we get something in you.”

“I’m down for some grub,” another tip off that this wasn’t a hangover; if it was, the very smell of plain toast would make him dry heave. Now that he was thinking about something other than his blinding headache, he realised that he was starving, the kind of hungry where you almost felt sick because it’d been so long since your stomach’d had anything in it, like it didn’t know how to tell the difference between hungry and full any more.

“I’ll go rustle somethin’ up,” Bobby’s hand returned for a gentle squeeze on his bicep, followed by a brief pat.

“You got any pie?”

He heard Bobby grumble something that sounded suspiciously like ‘dumbass’ under his breath before the door opened and shut again. Dean sighed and sunk further against the pillows, enjoying the feeling of the damp flannel against his aching eyes. The room sunk into a peaceful quiet and the red hot poker in his brain cooled down a little. It had become almost manageable, when he realised there was a sound in the quiet, one he’d been hearing all his life, so it’d taken a minute to clock on that it shouldn’t have been there.

His brother’s breathing.

Sam was still sat on the edge of the bed, presumably staring at him like a god damn weirdo, but he was still feeling too tender to take off the flannel and give him some side eye for being so weird. So instead, he pointedly cleared his throat.

“You know what I said earlier, about me dying? I didn’t actually mean it- it was this thing, you may have heard of it, called a joke?”

He heard Sam heave a sigh and if it wouldn’t have hurt so damn much, he would’ve rolled his eyes. Did he have to take everything so seriously? He was in pain, sure, but they’d both suffered worse than this. He’d eat and sleep this off then be right as rain, like he always was.

“Dean, what do you remember? Before you passed out?”

Dean couldn’t stop himself from groaning. All he wanted in the world was his head to stop pounding and throbbing like it was being used for target practice and he was pretty damn sure that the way to get that to happen wasn’t by talking, or even worse, thinking. But of course, Samantha didn’t know that and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t care if he did. He was too busy worrying that Dean had broken his head, because worrying unnecessarily was what Sam did best. Well, that wasn’t true. Getting on his _nerves_ was what Sam did best, worrying unnecessarily second, and throwing a never ending array of bitch faces was third. His boy had so many talents. He was so proud.

“Sam, can we do this later?” he grunted, “case you haven’t noticed, ‘m not exactly in shape for chatting right now,” a pause and he sighed, “stop looking at me like that.”

“What- Dean, you’ve got your eyes closed!”

“Please, I know your looks. I don’t need my eyes to see them, I can practically feel them at this point,” he sighed again, “look, when I can move without my head feeling like it’s gonna split in two, I’ll give you a tell you a nice long story of what went down before _I_ went down. Until then, beat it.”

He practically hear the cogs grinding in his brother’s oversized head for a good thirty seconds before the weight in the mattress finally lifted.

“Okay. Whatever you say, Michael Jackson.”

“Well done Sammy, that was almost funny.”

“Bite me.”

-

After Bobby returned with food (devastatingly, dry toast and orange juice, with no pie in sight) and Dean had all but inhaled it, he fell asleep, sinking into a deep dreamless sleep. He woke up only once to stumble to the john to take a leak with shaky aim, and then stumbled back and fell asleep again. Only this time he wasn’t welcomed into the comforting abyss of nothingness.

This time he dreamed.

Nothing was in order, everything jumbled together, like someone had decided to take a reel of film and went to town on the cutting and pasting, making a bizarre, jumbled collage of memories, like a failed school film project. At least, he was pretty sure they were memories. They were too vivid, too real, to be anything else, even when distorted in the way that all dreams were, each scene and snippet of dialogue perfectly clear before the next one took its place and it drifted into obscurity once more.

Dean awoke with a bone shaking jolt. The sheets clung to his legs as they jerked involuntarily and he sucked in a raw gasp. He pressed a palm to his forehead, covered in a glistening sheen of sweat, and swore he could feel the ghost of two fingers against his skin.

“Cas,” he croaked, wincing at the sound and the bitter taste in his mouth.

He reached for the water and took a gulp, relishing the soothing cold. He felt like shit. His head no longer felt like a stiff wind would make it split, but it still throbbed like he'd spent the night using it as a hammer. His bedclothes was drenched with sweat, the sheets feeling gross and sticky against his skin and he shivered, the room feeling chilled against his clammy skin. He hadn't had a dream like that before, where nothing had been hunting him, nothing terrifying had been clawing at his heels, but still made his stomach churn. It had been too vivid to dismiss it as merely his subconscious going to town while he slept. For whatever reason, his scrambled brain couldn’t piece together everything that happened the night before or what had caused him to be knocked unconscious for forty eight hours. But the memories were there, locked away and now surfacing in strange fragments through his dreams. And they had been about Cas. Maybe he was the reason he was in this state to begin with, it was the only real lead he had (if he could even call it that), but his powers had never left him feeling like this before. He’d prefer it if they were provided in chronological order, but when had things ever been that easy?

Dean put the glass back down and collapsed back onto the mattress, pulling the damp covers up over him, though it was probably only making him colder. He closed his eyes and tried to bring up some of the fragmented memories that had felt so clear a second ago, but were now fading as he became more awake. Images and feelings, snatches of dialogue that made little sense came to him and he grunted in frustration. So he focused on the last thing he could remember clearly.

_The panic room door slammed. Dean and Bobby turned to each other and shared a look of mirrored regret, sorrow and grim determination. They weren’t going to let the kid, the kid who definitely wasn’t a kid any more, hadn’t been for six years, had outgrown his title and his brother and even Bobby and was in fact turning into something less than human, they weren’t going to let him destroy himself. They weren’t going to let him turn into something they would be forced to hunt down._

_They turned away as the yells started up and Dean closed his eyes, willing himself to harden his heart and remember how his baby brother had looked with demon blood smeared all over his mouth, staring wide eyed with guilt and shame, trying and failing to hide his disgusting primal hunger. The same kid who’d beaten himself up over Jessica’s death because he dreamt it nights before it happened, the same kid who had been terrified of becoming a monster, who’d yearned for nothing but normalcy his entire life, sweet Sammy with puppy eyes, who had been slipping away from him like fine sand, was drinking demon blood like kool aid. Betrayal after betrayal and Dean just didn’t know what to do any more. He wanted his baby brother back. He wanted Sammy and he wanted to open that panic room door, punch him until he got it, until he understood what he was doing to them and then hold him tight, tight enough to squeeze all of the evil out of him._

_He walked up the stairs, his brothers cries still calling after him and blinked back the swell of tears._

Pain came through like a flashbang and he was blind, there was nothing but white, endless searing white and he howled. His head was going to explode and his eyes burst out of his skull, he was going to fucking die from a _migraine_ , it was worse than any gunshot wound, worse than being stabbed, worse than the hell hounds, unending piercing agony and Dean screamed, the sound ripping out of his throat and made the pain in his head burn and blister. He could vaguely make out the sound of the door slamming open over the sounds of his screeching, people calling his name, but he couldn’t think, tears were streaming down his face, his jaw taut enough to snap, every movement he made seemed to make it’s way up to his head and rivlets of pain washed over him. Hands were at the base of his neck, lifting him up and he sobbed, darkness now blotting the edges of the blind whiteness as consciousness started to slip away and god how he wanted it, how he would give anything for this agony to stop.

Something was slipped on him, covering the back of his head and falling to the bridge of his nose and he was lowered delicately back onto the mattress. Dean whimpered and could hear his own frightened babbling, hear himself begging, please, please, _anything_ to make it stop and his pride would have shrivelled if the pain didn’t obliterate everything. Someone was holding his hands and crooning, soft, gentle, whispery voices brushing over him like baby feathers. What was a few minutes in reality felt like an eternity as he hiccuped and cried and clung to those kind hands as knives pierced him again and again and again and all he could see was the cruel, brilliant white. And then, darkness came. It was slow at first and then he was plunged into it and he gasped. What had been a barrage of ceaseless hellfire inside his skull, dulled to an ache, a blessed, muted, steady throb. He breathed and sobbed again, thanking whatever gods were out there that it had finally stopped.

Dean pulled a slippy hand out from someone’s grasp and wiped his cheeks, feeling a soft material just above them. They’d put a pillowcase over his head. He swallowed and croaked, “Bobby? S’mmy?”

“Right here,” Sam’s voice was barely audible, quiet as fingertips on dust.

“We got you, kid,” Bobby’s was just as quiet and he gripped his hand tight, “you let us know when you can sit up and we’ll give you some painkillers, alright?”

“Uh-huh,” he didn’t dare nod and he still half felt like crying, scared that it would return, that this practically pleasant steady panging would evolve into that blinding monster and overcome everything, “Jesus Christ. What the hell is happening to me?”

No answer came from either of them, unsurprising as out of all three of them, he should be the one who knew what the hell was going on. The whole room sunk into silence, their hands still clasping Dean’s, which had begun to quiver. He didn’t want to think about moving, but at the same time he also desperately wanted to get something down his gullet that could help out with whatever the hell this was. His body felt cold and clammy, but he didn’t move, just breathing deep and slow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been like that when at last he croaked, “think ’m ready for some drugs now.”

Getting him to sit up was a delicate and arduous task. Two pairs of hands were on him, one at the base of his neck, one at back of his head and one on each arm, trying not to jostle, easing him up at a snail’s pace. He grunted as he was leant slowly onto the pillows stacked against the headboard, his body trembling with the exertion even though he’d barely done any of the work. He felt some pills drop onto his open palm and a glass of water was pressed against his other until he grasped it.

“Take your time, son.”

Even with his eyes closed and the pillowcase over his head, his head still moved slightly to the direction the pills were. Unbidden, an image of Sam, kneeling over that demon, sucking the blood out of it’s veins, a parody of their worst nightmares came to his mind. His little druggie brother, consorting with demons and sucking up their blood, the very creatures that had killed Mom, that had taken so much from them, he was letting their poison creep through his veins. What had happened to the Sam who wanted to be done with hunting, who wanted nothing to be normal, who had been distraught to find out that his heart was pumping out pure evil? How the hell could he have been reduced to this? He forced the pills down his throat, hoping that they were the strongest stuff that Bobby had, because god knows he needed it.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Dean?”

His voice was still quiet, full of attentiveness and worry. Dean’s mouth twisted into a grimace, cold bitterness closing over his heart. He’d thought that his pallet had become used to the tang of betrayal, but clearly it wasn’t. It was still shitty, it still hurt like a bitch and it was still a bitter pill he wanted to spit out.

“Are you clean?”

Sam didn’t reply.

Dean didn’t move, clutching the glass of water in a white-knuckled grip. Perhaps right now wasn’t the best time to be having this conversation when his brain was a powder keg ready to blow at any second, but he couldn’t force himself to wait, not when the image was still seared into his mind his brother reduced to a demon blood baby.

“Dean…”

The grip on the glass became even tighter and his fingernails punctured the flesh of his free hand, “Are you clean, Sam?” he ground out.

“D’you think I’d let him out of that room if he wasn’t?”

He’d forgotten that Bobby was there and his gruff voice, unimpressed as ever, startled him.

“Right… Sorry, Bobby.”

“Don’t forget you missed all the fireworks, sleeping beauty. While you were out cold, I had to deal with him flinging around the walls like he was in there with a poltergeist. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.”

“Did… Wait, seriously? That’s what happens when you come down from the demon juice?”

“It was…” Sam stopped as soon as he started and he heard the hesitation in his voice, the regret and shame and Dean almost felt sorry for him. Almost, “it was rough.”

“Oh, well my heart’s just breaking for you, Sam,” he could hear his voice drip with venom and he didn’t show that another jolt of pain rang through his skull. He didn’t have time for another episode, not now.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was so tiny and pathetic. Maybe a couple of years back it would have broken his heart, but now all it made him do was seethe, a cold rage bleeding from his the pit of his stomach.

“You’re sorry?” the words were drawn out slowly through gritted teeth, bitter and acidic, so dangerously close to hatred, “and how many times have you said you’re sorry? How many times have you lied to me, bullshitted me. I’m you’re friggin’ brother, that’s supposed to mean something Sam!”

“Dean, maybe you’d better-”

Bobby’s interruption was steam rollered by Dean’s tirade, his voice growing louder as he spoke, ignoring the barbed spike inside his skull that was being plunged in deeper and deeper, “How long have you been doing this, huh? Going behind my back, sneaking off with Ruby? Were you sucking her blood too, did she start you on this?” his arm reached up for the pillowcase on his head, “do you have any idea what you put me through? Lilith is breaking all the goddamn seals, we need to stop her and I’ve got you going cold turkey down in the basement!” his fingers found purchase and he yanked the pillowcase off, “you sunnuva bitch, I was gonna say yes because of you!”

 _“No, you are not saying yes, do_ not _say yes, Dean, you cannot stop it. If you say yes, you have no idea what will happen, the consequences will be disastrous, you cannot-”_

_“Cas, what are you talking about? I thought you all you feathered assholes wanted was for me to be your bitch? You’ve been on my ass trying to get me to say yes for months!”_

_Castiel met his gaze and his borrowed his eyes were filled with more emotion than he’d ever seen them, a myriad of feelings that he couldn’t define. Even the way he had spoken was different to his usual monotone gravel, urgent and borderline frantic._

_“I…”_

_Jesus, now he couldn’t even get his words out. Since when did the cat ever get Castiel’s tongue?_

_“Yes. My brothers do want you to be their… bitch...” he frowned, blinking in confusion, “but… I do not believe that that is what God would want. It… it is not right. I do not have faith that Heaven’s plan is just any longer.”_

_Dean stared. The angel was looking at the floor, an internal struggle of biblical proportions  clearly taking place here and to be honest, he couldn’t blame him. The last time he saw him, he’d said he served Heaven only, mankind and himself be damned. And now here he was, stumbling over his words like a mere mortal and admitting what surely must be blasphemous treason to an angel. Wasn’t saying an angel saying that the Holy Heavens were wrong kind of like a demon saying hail Mary? He had to wonder though, if they couldn’t bet on Heaven’s game plan any more, then just whose exactly could they bet on? If the forces of_ Heaven _couldn’t stop the apocalypse and seals were breaking left, right and centre, then what the the hell would?_

 _“Cas… is the apocalypse gonna happen? Are you telling me that all the seals are gonna break? Have they_ already _broken?”_

_Castiel lifted his head, his gaze on something that Dean couldn’t see, as though somebody had called his name, even though the night was silent. Finally, he turned to him and he saw regret and resignation, his jaw lined with grim determination and underneath it all, deep deep wells of sadness. He looked almost human and yet more ancient than any human could possibly be._

_“No. I will not let the apocalypse happen. But we are running out of time.”_

Somebody was screaming like they were being murdered.

There had been an explosion, the room was filled with such a bright brilliant light, his retinas shot to pieces.

Someone was trying to hold him down, but he didn’t know why his limbs were moving to begin with.

Something pinched his arm and just before the world turned white, to grey, to black, he realised that he was the one who had been screaming.

_“Cas,” he gently pushed away the hand that had been hovering by his forehead, marvelling at the tiniest tremors that ran through it, for since when had angels the need to shake? “Just tell me what you’re going to do. I can help.”_

_Castiel had drifted off for a mere moment, but it was long enough to stop him from doing whatever magic trick he had in store. He blinked and stared down at Dean as though he’d materialised out of thin air._

_“You can’t help Dean,” he said quietly. A tiny tremor ran through his hand again and he didn’t attempt to pull his it out of Dean’s grasp, “the only thing you can do is stay here. I’ve taken the necessary precautions so that if my siblings do come looking for you and Sam, they will not be able to find you or at the very least, it will slow them down. But you must keep Sam in that room and you mustn't say yes at any cost.”_

_“I know, Cas,” Dean replied, speaking to Cas in a way hadn’t done before, like he was talking to an animal, soft and cautious so as not to scare it away, “I already told you I wouldn’t.”_

_The angel looked down at him and those deep wells of sadness were overflowing. He looked so desperately mournful, like a man who knew his fate was terrible and hopeless, but still had to rise to meet it. Dean couldn’t imagine what it was that an angel had to do to stir up such swells of emotion, but he thought he could relate._

_“It is very unlikely that I… that you will ever see me again after this. I would like you to know that I have found our time together to be very…” the corners of his mouth quirked, “enlightening. I have learnt much from you... and I believe I have learnt from Sam as well. I am very grateful for that, Dean,” he chuckled, but there was no humour in it and Dean could do nothing but stare, transfixed. It felt like a final soliloquy. It felt like goodbye and he knew by now the goodbyes people said when they weren’t coming back, “I would be mocked in Heaven if I were to call you my friend, but I cannot think of a title more fitting. I have much to thank you for,” he slowly pulled his hand free out of Dean’s lax grip and his fingers were inches away from his forehead. They were shaking, “I hope this will be repayment enough. Goodbye, Dean.”_

_Dean opened his mouth to speak, but something warm pressed against his forehead and then there was nothing._

-

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he had to be treated with such infuriating delicacy and tenderness. When he woke up, Bobby and Sam had explained to him in bare husks of voices that they’d had to dope him up with the strongest stuff Bobby had in his most likely illegal arsenal of medications. And they’d be damned if they’d have to do it again. With this, he had been sentenced to blindness until they were absolutely certain that he wouldn’t have another episode. He had a blindfold permanently wrapped loosely round his eyes and had to be led everywhere by the arm (because being led by the hand like a lost child would put a permanent dent in his already battered ego) and as irritating and humiliating as it was, it did help. His head hurt like a bitch, but it was a normal level of hurt, not the possible permanent brain damage kind, and he’d take a migraine over that kind of agony any day.

Once they’d established that Dean could manage sounds above a whisper, they talked about what had happened. He’d told them about Cas’s disturbingly emotional (by the angel’s standards at least) and very final goodbye, about his ‘repayment’ which was as much of a mystery to the two hunters as it was to Dean. If he ever saw him again, he’d have to explain to him that strippers, pies and plain old cash were far better ways to pay him back than whatever the hell he’d done to him. He told them how he’d been on the verge of saying yes; this had been followed by a very tense silence as Sam said nothing and Dean wished sorely that he could fix him with an icy stare. He told them that Castiel had stopped him, that the once steadfast, holier than thou Angel of the Lord had come to doubt that Heaven’s plan was just. That apparently him saying ‘yes’ would have let to disastrous consequences. As ominous and seemingly doom ridden this news had first appeared to be, to Bobby and Sam, it actually brought relief and explained a lot. Because the Seals had stopped breaking. When they hadn’t been at Deans bedside, they’d been keeping a lookout for any signs of breaking Seals, looking up any and every scrap of lore they could find about it, reading and re-reading every biblical text they had in the house and watching the news like anxious hawks. But there was nothing. Nothing… Biblical. No more signs. No more suspect disasters. The world seemed to be back to it’s normal, shitty self. Rufus had spotted it too and he’d rung them to ask what the hell was going on, only they had as much of an idea as he did. It seemed that the Apocalypse was on hold and now that they had heard Castiel’s goodbye, it appeared that the whole thing had been called off all together.

Now that they thought about it, there had been no visits from Angels of any kind since Castiel left. Ruby hadn’t called. It was quiet on both fronts. It was a dangerous thing to hope, but it seemed as though he’d had done it. Though exactly how he had done it, and why Dean was no longer the chosen one, were questions that would remain unanswered for some time.

-

Sam had managed to perfect the art of avoiding his brother’s wrathful gaze at the breakfast table ever since he had gained an independent spirit at the age of seven. It was a war, Sam’s disinterested aloofness versus Dean’s burning stare. The atmosphere was tense, but either brother would be damned if they would be the first to break it; Sam would say that if Dean had a problem with him, then he should be the one to speak up first, and Dean would say that Sammy knew damn well what was up and he should be a man about it and own up. Only they weren’t kids any more and they weren’t in a crappy motel room with a rebellious Sammy kept barely under wraps by his brother who was usually at the end of his wits. They were at Bobby’s, the only home they’d ever truly known. Dean was glaring at Sam because he’d watched him guzzle demon blood with familiar relish, sucked it down like a beer and Sam was pretending not to notice because he didn’t know what to say.

Bobby was watching the two of them and considering banging both of their heads together. He got it. He did. Sam was a supernatural blood druggy who had lied to him and Dean more times than they probably knew, more times than they could probably count and that hurt. It really fucking hurt and he god knows he loved that kid and he understood so much why Dean was acting the way he was; but both of the numb skulls seemed to forget that they hadn’t actually had the green light on whether the apocalypse had stopped or not. For all they knew, this could just be the calm before the storm and they barely knew anything. No angel in heaven would respond to Dean, no matter how many times he screamed to the sky that he would say yes, no matter how roared Castiel’s name until he got sick of saying it. Surely, their bizarre family drama could wait until they knew for a fact that armageddon wasn’t darkening their doorstep any more.

He heaved a sigh, “Sam. Have you spoken to Ruby yet?”

Sam jumped in his seat like Bobby had just shoved a fire under his ass, “What?! No, I-”

“Well, maybe you should.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to jump, fixing Bobby with the stare he’d just been aiming at Sam, only it didn’t have nearly as much of an effect. It was difficult to see Dean as intimidating when he could still remember a time when he hadn’t reached his hip.

“Wanna run that by me again, Bobby?”

He rolled his eyes, “Look, in case you two idjits have forgotten, we might still have an apocalypse on our hands. I ain’t gonna be satisfied knowin’ this is over until I see Lilith’s head on a stick. Now apparently all the angels, including the one on your shoulder, have gone AWOL and I get the feelin’ that if we pick up any old demon off the street and ask them what the hell’s goin’ on, they’re gonna tell us jack squat. Ruby’s the best bet we got. Unless either of you two genius’ can come up with something better?”

The pair exchanged glances and a whole conversation probably passed between them in that brief moment. Dean swallowed, like something was caught in his throat.

“What about Pamela? Why don’t we see her?”

“I’ve already talked to her. ‘pparently the spirit world is just as confused as we are.”

Dean's jaw ticked like he was trying to swallow his tongue, “... I'm sure Cas took care of it. I mean if he didn't, we'd know by now, right?”

“You ever think that maybe he's stopped picking up the phone because he got himself killed?”

“No,” Dean answered far too quickly and Bobby raised his eyebrows at him. He huffed a short sigh, “he's an _angel_ , Bobby, I think he can handle himself.”

“If one angel could stop the end of the world, then why the hell bother dragging you out of the pit? Why was heaven losing and why was Lilith going to town on all of these friggin’ seals?!”

“I don't know!”

“Then don’t you think,” the volume of his voice rose to match Dean's, “that we should talk to someone who might?!”

“Right, cos that bitch has a hotline to heaven. Bobby, come on, we can't trust a word she says, she's been filling Sam's head with lies for god knows how long now!”

“Dean,” his patience was fast wearing thin and it could be heard as he spoke through gritted teeth, “unless you've got a better idea than ‘trusting’ that Feathers has managed to sort this mess out, we're speaking to Ruby.”

He was right and he could see that Dean knew it. He didn't particularly like this course of action either; he wouldn’t trust any demon as far as he could throw them, let alone the one that had been leading Sam down his road of borderline witchcraft. Sam hadn’t said anything during this entire exchange, only staring down at his cereal as it slowly turned into a congealed, soggy mess.

“Sam?”

Bobby resisted the urge to point out that if Dean didn’t bark at Sam like he was his drill sergeant, he’d be much more likely to answer himself instead of cowering away like a beaten dog. If Cas had managed to pull this off and they were going to be able to live to see the foreseeable future, he wondered how the hell the boys were going to come out of it. This might just be the thing to break them. There was so much hurt between the two, so much bad blood, betrayal and deceit bred from resentment, fear and deep, fierce love. This wasn’t the kind of thing a simple exchange of blows or a night’s arguing could fix, it’d take a long time to draw the poison from the wound; the real question was whether they had the patience to do it. He sighed. He had to at least take his own advice and think about this when they knew that the party of the century had been cancelled.

“I’ve checked my phone. She hasn’t rung. It… it’s not like her.”

Dean shifted in his seat, folding his arms over his chest, tongue pushing against his cheek. After a moment, wherein he looked as though he was bracing himself to taste something foul, he said tersely, “Ring her.”

Sam stared, checking, double checking, triple checking, that this wasn’t a test. Their eyes met and he pulled out his phone.

-

“Never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad the feds decided to send someone. Tell you the truth, this is a little above my pay grade.”

Dean and Sam shared a silent look, not skipping a beat as they walked down the corridor of Maryland County hospital.

“Well, that’s why they sent us out here, Dr Hitchens,” Dean said confidently, adjusting his tie for the twentieth time that day and wishing for the thousandth time in his life that feds had a better taste in clothes, “when was it that you found the body?”

“‘Bout a week ago. We’ve kept her on ice, seeing as it’s still an open case and no one’s come to claim the body. And to be honest, I’d love to know what or who the hell did this cos it is a damn mystery to me.”

The brother’s glanced at each other, eyes widening by fractions, eyebrows raised. A week ago Castiel had decided to jump ship and bail on Heaven’s Grand Mystery Plan. The timing was too perfect for coincidence. The doors to the morgue opened and they followed the mortician through to the wall of metal shelves that they’d seen hundreds of all across the country. A shelf was pulled out and Sam and Dean choked.

Well then.

It appeared that Christmas had come early.

Ruby’s corpse was laid out on the slab. It took every single ounce of willpower that Dean had to not to punch the air and holler in triumph. He was only sorry that he hadn’t done the deed himself. The perpetual thorn in his goddamn side, the bitch that had wormed into his brother’s heart, seeded evil there and made it fester, had turned him against him, was dead and he didn’t even feel the slightest bit guilty to dance on her grave. She was a demon that they had permitted to run around topside for far too long and now she was back in hell. The world was just a little brighter and he knew exactly who to thank for it.

Her eyes had been burned out of her sockets.

Bloody, crisp, lifeless holes stared back up at him as he peered into her face.

He looked up at Sam and felt the familiar surge of emotions swell up in him as he saw what he thought was sadness flicker across his features. Pity they couldn’t bring her back to the dead one more time just so he could stab her with her own knife.

“You boys seen anything like this before?”

Dean looked down at her again and allowed himself a small smirk, “Nope, sorry. Can’t say we have.”

-

“So if Ruby got roasted the same night that Feathers flew the coop, it’s safe to say that he’s the one who did the roasting. And it’s also safe to say that she had something to do with kickstarting the apocalypse.”

“Yeah, you got that right,” Dean took another swig of his celebratory beer. Sam’s remained on the table, untouched, “I mean, it’s not like he’d go round smiting demons for fun. I don’t think he even knows what fun is.”

“So now we’ve not only got to figure out what happened to your angel, all the other freaking angels, what Heaven’s plan was, whether the apocalypse has stopped for good and how Ruby tied into the whole damn thing,” he could hear the frustration in the hunter’s voice from the other end of the phone.

“And what the hell his repayment was. Unless brain aneurysms are the way that angels get their kicks,” he leaned into the cell which was placed on the table. “you know Bobby, I do think we should get hard evidence that his is all over, but I’m putting Vegas money on Cas.”

“Yeah, I’m startin’ to agree with you. I’d love to know what the hell he did though.”

“Yeah, join the club.”

Bobby sighed over the loudspeaker, “Well, as glad as I am that Ruby’s gone up in smoke, we’re pretty much screwed every way to Sunday in getting any intel on what’s going on. Until the spirit world can clue the psychics in on what the hell is going on or the angels pay us a visit, we’ve got nothin’.”

Dean couldn’t help but agree. Ironically, it was Cas that he would have called on in this exact situation. He was the only angel they knew who was tolerable, the only one who didn’t see them as pawns or ‘mud-monkeys’; apparently he even saw Dean as a friend, which had definitely come as a surprise. It wasn’t so much a question of whether he liked Cas, it was more a question of what Cas thought of him. The guy was an enigma. He was so strange and alien, so entirely not of this Earth. He seemed both fond of and baffled by humanity in a way that the other angel’s weren’t. Ironically, the other angels seemed more human in their petty insults and bitterness, as opposed to Castiel, who took everything completely literally, who would stare into Dean like he could see into his soul and couldn’t make heads nor tails of what he saw there. Even the way he spoke, so direct, technically perfect English with full sentences, but nothing conversational about it. Weird that the angels who seemed to nearly despise humanity seemed more human than the only one who cared about it. He wondered, for hundredth, maybe thousandth time that week, if he’d truly managed to put an end to everything and whether he’d been killed in the process. The radio silence on the receiving end of his prayers didn’t bode well and it wasn’t as if Cas had gone AWOL going after a low level demon. He’d gone after the big bitch herself, bringer of the end times. Like Bobby said, if it were so easy to stop her in the first place, why bother hauling his stubborn ass topside? But bringing him back from the dead was heaven’s plan, not Castiel’s. And with every day that passed with no word from him, his chances of being alive steadily fell.

And so, the waiting game began.

-

It took another full week, two weeks since his disappearance, for Dean to discover how Castiel had repaid him for his enlightenment and friendship.

It started with Sam.

He’d barely spoken after Ruby’s death; having received almost irrefutable evidence that Ruby was involved in breaking the seals, which by association made _him_ involved in breaking the seals, he’d fallen into a dark, brooding silence. Dean hadn’t bothered trying to break it, partly because it was a suitable punishment for being so naive and stupid enough to trust a demon and also because he just didn’t want to have that conversation yet. He himself had been wrestling with the concept that his brother was somehow, even if it was inadvertently, involved in  bringing about the end of the world. The concept was nearly incomprehensible and with everything else that had happened between them, he needed some time away from Sam.

So he was surprised when Sam actually spoke, to him of all people. There was no eye contact and his voice quiet, but still, he spoke.

“You’ve not been having nightmares.”

Dean blinked, “Do you… listen to me sleep?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, half wondering whether his brother had finally snapped.

“You used to wake me up with your screaming,” he replied, almost earilly, his voice, like the rest of him, a mere shell of what it usually was, “you don’t any more. You haven’t since that night.”

That night?

It took him a moment to realise that Sam was talking about the night Cas took the hit for humanity. He hadn't even noticed that he'd been falling asleep without the stink of Jack on his breath or waking up with the screams of the damned ringing in his ears. There'd frankly been too much going on for him to really pay heed to it; he'd been so caught up worrying over the apocalypse and Cas and Sam that he hadn't given a moment's thought as to how he himself was actually doing. As it turned out, he was doing pretty damn well.

“It's good, Dean,” there was a mere ghost of a smile on his brother’s face and he almost looked like the Sammy he once knew and he was once again distracted from what was happening to him. He remained distracted until Bobby (whose house they were staying at seeing as it made no sense for them to be on the road with no information to hunt down and Sam in no state to hunt even if they did), commented that he wasn’t smelling like a brewery any more. Dean hadn’t failed to pick up the relief that was hidden beneath the layers of gruffness and feigned off handedness.

Then he began to notice it himself. He didn’t shake any more when he helped Bobby with the cooking, handling knives without thought when before, looking down at them clutched in his hands would make him want to retch. He no longer needed five coffees in the morning to make him feel like a barely functioning human being, his hands no longer had that intermittent tremble that had plagued them since crawling out of his own grave and he realised that if he didn’t have so much to worry about, he’d probably be feeling the best he’d felt in a long, long time. Bobby and Sam (the former more than the latter, as Sam tended to hide away from the both of them), kept shooting him strange glances, like the kind they usually did when he drank too much or he said when he would lapse into a tight jawed silence when something was brought up that reminded him of Hell, only it was more confusion than concern. He only began to question it himself when he discovered that he’d gained weight because he’d been eating the way he used to, three meals and way too much sugary crap in between. He caught himself heading to Bobby’s liquor cabinet out of habit, only to find that when he got there, he didn’t want a drink. And it was when he’d been working on the car, because there was nothing else to do, looking at Castiel’s handprint reflected back up at him in the black reflection of the impala hood, seared onto his skin, fresh as the day he came back, that he tried to remember Hell.

And he couldn’t.

_“So, what do you remember?”_

_A pause. A lie._

_“Nothing. Guess I must have blacked it out._

_“Huh. Thank god.”_

He stared at himself, his eyes wide, pressing his own hand against the brand. He remembered the hell hounds ripping him to shreds, the feeling of his innards being gouged and blood exploding inside of his own lungs, more pain than he thought possible, his body, falling away under their fangs, as pliable as wet paper. He remembered the grave and his desperate, rasp, hoarse breaths, more a death rattle than the first breaths of life, the darkness and his reaching hands finally finding the sky. The hell hounds. The grave. The hell hounds. The grave. And nothing in between. There wasn’t even a hint of anything, not even a year, not even a day. He could remember what it had done to him, he remembered the nightmares, but not what he saw in them, remembered looking down at his hunting knife and wanting to force it into his own gut, but not what he’d done to make him want to do it. He remembered Castiel and Uriel asking, forcing, strong arming him into torturing Alistair, but as soon as he walks through the door, it fades to black. Every single memory of Hell had been scrubbed out of his mind.

Dean was crying without even registering, sobs shaking his frame, his hand still clasped over the handprint, the mark of his salvation. Castiel had pulled him out of Hell, but he hadn’t pulled Hell out of him. It hadn’t really felt like being saved, not truly, not when horror still clung to his every sleeping and waking hour, not when he remembered every single day of every single year, not when he felt he still deserved to be down there. But his angel had taken the dive once more, had decided to save him for good. Not because of Holy orders, not because he had to, or because it was part of heaven’s plan, but because they were friends. Because somehow Dean, who had thought he was broken beyond all repair, who was steadily losing faith in whatever he had left, had brought him enlightenment. He couldn’t even imagine what an angel had to learn from him and Sam, whose relationship had already started to crumble even before Dean went to Hell. But he had seen _something_ in them, something in Dean and it was enough for him to set Dean free. Castiel had saved his soul and had managed to fix it as well. He’d done the impossible twice, the second miracle of his own volition and he was so, so undeserving of it all, but he had never been more grateful.

Someone was calling his name and a hand was clasped over his, another on his arm. He saw Sam through the tears, terrified, more animated than he’d been in days, calling his name. He started to laugh, happiness surging through him, so much elation that he didn’t think he’d feel again. Laughter and sobs merged as one, the sound a cacophony of relief and hope, grief and joy, his heart swelling with more emotion than he could handle. He all but collapsed against Sam, who clung to him like he was trying to contain all the madness spilling out of his brother.

“Sammy… Sammy, I’ve forgotten,” he babbled, giggling and whimpering, a bizarre, hiccuping sound, “he made me forget.”

“What?” Sam gripped him tighter, his voiced pitched in panic, “Dean, what are you talking about?”

He managed to wriggle out of his grip enough to look into his face and he grinned, tears streaming down his face, “Cas. He made me forget, Sammy. He made me forget Hell.”

-

 

_Two months before the fall_

 

- 

Sam and Dean had their talk. It felt like the longest they’d ever had. It was definitely the quietest Dean had ever been. He’d forced himself to shut up, because he couldn’t argue with him, not this time. Arguing had got them to this place. Telling Sam that he was wrong even when he knew it already, making him feel like a kid (because on some level, he was still a kid to Dean and he always would be) only shut him out more. He told him to act like an adult then punished him for doing exactly that. They were close to losing each other, he could feel it. Their bond, their brotherhood, it had been reduced to taut thread and there wasn’t much more it could take. He listened as Sam poured out his soul for him to see and the more he talked, the deeper he dug and soon everything was spilling out, everything ugly and bitter, everything he had tried to keep hidden since they were kids was on display.

Sam was shaking the entire time. He knew what he had become and he knew he didn’t deserve redemption. He had been a hair breadths away from turning into a full blown monster before he’d been locked up in that panic room, ever since he had seen Ruby’s charred eye sockets he’d realised it, he knew that he had fucked up, he’d been so horribly, horribly wrong. It had taken literally divine intervention for him to finally listen to what everybody had been telling him for who knew how long; he was being manipulated and he would have been twisted into who knew what by the time Ruby was done with him. He was lucky that his brother was even willing to hear him out. He was so scared of Dean walking out the door for good, that he would say too much, go too far, that it would break them for good; he had everything to lose, but his brother said he wanted the truth. He said he wanted to know everything. So he told him, even the things he wanted to forget, even the things he knew Dean didn't want to hear. And he heard him out in an uncharacteristic silence, arms folded across his chest, never breaking eye contact once.

When he'd finished, the silence hung in the air; Sam quivered where he stood, waiting and watching as Dean looked down at his shoes, his face unreadable.

“That everything, Sam?”

His voice held no emotion either, there was no clue for him grasp onto. Sam swallowed thickly, “Yeah. That’s it.”

Dean fixed him with a fierce, calculating look, the kind Sam had seen him throw hunters they’d only just met, trying to figure them out in a single glance, evaluating the threat. He stood up slowly and walked towards him and he felt weak at the knees. He braced himself, ready for a fist to be thrown, ready for Dean to finally cast him out once and for all. He flinched as an arm reached up, but it went past his face, a strong hand cupping the back of his neck and he was pulled into his brother’s arms.

“Okay, Sammy. You told me everything, I believe you,” the hand was still at the base of his skull, warm and solid, the other wrapped tightly around his middle and the silent message was received loud and clear: you’re not going anywhere, “now that you have, we can try to fix this.”

Sam choked down on a noise that was somewhere between a sob and whimper. His arms wrapped tight around him and he buried his face against his shoulder, “But… but what about-”

“You’re my brother, Sam. You’ve hurt me, you’ve lied to me and you let yourself be fooled into sucking up evil, but you’re still my baby brother. You’re still Sammy to me and you always will be.”

Relief made him boneless and he sank against Dean, tears already starting to stream down his face, “I’m sorry,” he whimpered and he was, he was so, so sorry, sorrier than he’d ever been, “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“I know,” the hand moved up to his hair, fingers carding gently through the locks with familiar expertise, “I know you are.”

Dean held his brother, weeping and shuddering in his arms until he could trust that he wouldn’t come apart when he pulled away. He cupped the sides of his face, gentle and persistent until Sam’s red rimmed eyes met his, “Now we’re gonna talk about this. Actually talk, like adults, not like I’m your big brother telling you off because… well, to be honest, that’s exactly how I’ve been treating you. I need to stop treating you like a kid just because you’re my baby brother. And it ain’t gonna be over in a night, there’s shit we haven’t sorted between us going back since we were kids. But you _are_ still my brother, Sam. We can still fix this.”

And they talked. They talked for hours. Sometimes they shouted, but they managed to reign it back in and they began, very slowly, to heal. They were talking and laughing about something stupid they’d both done when they were kids by the time the daylight was breaking and when Bobby came down for breakfast, he found both Winchesters passed out on the sofa, slumped against each other, breathing together in harmony.

-

“So what are you gonna do?” Sam asked from the porch, watching Dean load up the impala.

“Find Cas. Least I can do for the guy is buy him a beer and that’s just for fixing me up, never mind the whole saving the world thing.”

“You do know we still don’t have hard evidence on that, right?”

Dean turned to him and gestured with widely with his arms, “the evidence is all around us, Sammy. I don’t see all that hell fire that was forecasted raining down from the sky, do you?”

Sam threw him an unimpressed look and decided not to respond to that particular comment, “And how are you gonna find Cas? He’s an angel, it’s not like there’s a summoning spell for angels, least none that we’ve found.”

He shrugged, closing the false lid of the trunk that hid their armoury and heaving his duffel bag on top of it, “Dunno. Might visit Missouri, she might know something about trying to talk to angels or contacting heaven.”

“Yeah, I think skipping Pamela on this one is a wise idea.”

The image of Pamela’s burnt eye holes came to Dean’s mind and he shot a Sam a look with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, “Yeah,” he scoffed, “you think?”

He slammed the lid of the trunk down and heaved a sigh, “I’ll be looking for his body too. I don’t…”

He leaned down against the car and frowned down at his distorted reflection. He didn’t believe that Cas was dead. His gut was telling him that he was still alive, somewhere, but he had to be realistic as well. It was a hell of a lot more likely that he died saving Earth than he was swanning about in Heaven, alive and happy. For one thing, he’d gone against Heaven’s plan, so if he was alive, chances were he wouldn’t be up there. Secondly, people in his life didn’t tend to get happy endings, so it wouldn’t surprise him if Castiel didn’t get one either. But he still didn’t think he was dead. He still prayed to him every day, just in case, as if by some chance he somehow had his Dean radio switched off and the one time he switched it back on, he’d hear his call.

“I don’t think he’s dead, but there’s always a chance. Even with his angel mojo, Lilith always was a nasty bitch.”

Sam nodded, his face pinched in a frown. His reverie was broken at Dean’s question:

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“Me? Er…” he ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

They’d both come to the conclusion that they needed a break from each other. The likelihood was that their futures were stretched before them once more and now that there was probably nothing big on the horizon, they realised that they didn’t have to spend it together. And their many conversations after the past week had given them both a lot to think about. So they were to go their separate ways, with no unnecessary communication, and reconvene in a month to see where they were at.

“I… I was thinking of visiting Jess’s grave.”

Dean blinked in surprise, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her and uh…” he shrugged, looking down at his shoes, “I dunno. It’d be good to see her.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me man,” he replied, his tone low and kind.

“I know. After that, I don’t know what I’ll do. Try and… figure out what I want I guess,” he looked up at Dean, looking lost, “do you know what you want?”

“I wanna find that angel and buy him a drink. Maybe after that I’ll do some soul searching,” he offered Sam a smile, “you can do whatever you want Sam. Just make sure it’s what _you_ actually want.”

Sam nodded. Now all he had to do was figure out what that was. He’d gone down a different road before, but that had only led him straight back to where he was before. He wasn’t sure if he could ever live a normal life, knowing that the one he’d left behind would forever haunt him, knowing that demon blood ran through his very veins. He wasn’t even sure if he deserved a normal life any more. He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. He could spend a month thinking about that after he said goodbye to Dean. It was strange, parting on good terms with him. Whenever they were apart, it had been because Sam had decided to leave, which was always messy and painful or because of an argument, again, messy and painful. It was oddly refreshing to do it voluntarily, that he could be on his own knowing that his brother wasn’t out there hating his guts.

Dean pulled him into a tight hug, one that squeezed the breath out of him; the smell of Dad’s old leather jacket reached him as he sucked in a deep breath, “You stay safe out there, Dean.”

They pulled away and as Dean grinned, Sam found himself almost tempted to join him in his search for Castiel. He wasn’t the only one who wanted to thank him.

-

 

_One month before the fall_

 

-

“So, how’s the hunt for Castiel going?”

Dean twisted the cap off his beer bottle and brought it quickly to his lips before it over flowed. Him and Sam were sat on the roof of his car, watching the sun set over one of the forests of Utah, drinking beers and chatting like no time had passed between them. It reminded him of the time before he’d sold his soul to bring Sam back, a time before heaven and destiny and broken seals, when it was just the two of them out on the road and moments like this came to them easy and free. It brought a warm feeling to his chest and he let it wash over him. Castiel’s gift had allowed him to feel all the good things he didn’t think he’d ever feel again and it would be a damn waste not to bask in them when they came.

“Well, turns out that you can’t just summon an angel down from hell the way you can summon a demon or a spirit. Who knew, huh, it’s almost like they’re important or something.”

Sam snorted.

“One good thing though, I haven’t found his body and there’s been no weird deaths with angel wing graffiti either. I checked on the Novaks as well, Jimmy hasn’t gone back to them, so I’m guessing Cas is still on board the Jimmy train.”

“So you’ve got nothing then?”

Dean smirked, “C’mon Sam, at least have a little bit of faith in your big bro. I got a lead.”

“On Cas?”

“Nope. Well, kind of. You see, Lilith was trying to bring about the apocalypse, so to stop the apocalypse, you had to stop her, right?”

“Right,” Sam said slowly, waiting for Dean to get to his point.

“And Lilith had a whole army of nasties doing her bidding, so I figured that if anyone would have known what happened to her, it’ll have to have been one of them.”

“Makes sense.”

“So, I started to track down her top dogs. I threw out a bone and whad’dya know, one of ‘em bit.”

Sam stared at him for a moment, before a grin slid on his face, “you managed to track down someone from _Lilith’s_ army?”

“Better than than that, Sam, her second in command,” he Dean flashed him a big, shit eating grin and Sam couldn’t help but laugh. It felt so good, so _right_ , to have his brother back to his usual cocky self, full of bravado and confidence and none of it false.

“Alright, so when do we set off.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, “We?”

“Yeah… is that okay?”

“Yeah, I mean,” he paused, a surprised smile on his face, “it’s great, I just… Is it what you want? You’ve been trying to get away from this life since we were kids.”

Sam shrugged, taking a drink from his beer, thinking over his answer, “I guess it’s different when I’m the one making the decision and not Dad. He was… he was so obsessed that he didn’t let us be anything else, he didn’t even give us the choice. It wasn’t about me liking the job or not, it never really was. The problem was that I wasn’t allowed to even _want_ anything different and when I did, I was punished for it,” he glanced over at Dean and offered him a smile, “I’ve got a choice now. This is what I _want_ to do. I think if I tried living a normal life again, hunting’d be the itch I’d never get to scratch, you know?”

Dean smiled in return, “Yeah. I think I know what you mean.”

“Besides, you’re not the only one who wants to thank Castiel. When we find him, I wanna buy him a drink too.”

Dean grinned, “Yeah. When we find him, we’ll buy him a freaking brewery.”

-

 

_The night of the fall_

 

-

The drive to Bobby’s place was one that Dean and Sam knew best. No need for maps, barely any need for thinking, just keeping one eye on the road and the other on the familiar countryside of Sioux Falls rushing by the window. Drives to Bobby’s had always been the best; the destination of most of their drives usually led to a crappy motel and sometimes crappier food. Creature comforts rarely featured in their jobs, nor did easy answers or even guaranteed safety. But when they were driving to Singer Salvage, the brothers knew that clean sheets, hearty meals, safety and answers awaited them. The same gruff greeting awaited them, happiness hidden in the undertones of a dry comment, a brief hug and a hard pat on the back that would crush your lungs and knock what air was left out of you. It was the closest to home they’d ever got. Closest to a parent, a good one at least, that they’d ever got.

Bobby was waiting for them by the time they arrived. As soon as they’d got out the car, he’d asked them what the hell had taken them so long and pulled them both into a bone crushing hug (something which had been much easier when they weren’t taller than him). Sam explained with a smirk that Dean had been driving like a girl ever since they’d ran into a witch whose hex bag had turned the Impala into a death trap. Dean snapped back that it would have taken them twice as long if he’d let Grandma Samantha at the wheel. Bobby watched the bickering with an expression of exasperated amusement and barked at them to get inside before he’d change his mind about letting them stay.

Five burgers (two of which Dean had wolfed down, with Sam watching, a look of thinly veiled disgust on his face) and a couple of beers later, they were sat in Bobby’s living room, telling him about what went down with Lilith’s second in command. It had taken longer than Dean had made out to actually track her down and what felt like even longer to actually get her to talk. The Dean from Hell might have known what to do, but that Dean was long since gone and neither him or Sam had had training in torture. So, they were stuck with the basics of salt, exorcism and holy water, which, after 48 hours, apparently did the trick.

The first answer they’d got had been relayed to Bobby almost as soon as the words had been torn from her throat.

The apocalypse had indeed been stopped.

That had been all the information they’d given him, seeing as it was the most important. After all, they’d need to start getting a move on if it turned out that they’d been sitting on their asses the entire time the world had been slowly grinding towards self destruction. All three of them caught up on jobs that hadn’t allowed for long conversations since then, so everything else that she’d said had been delayed until now.

“So did he do it then?”

Dean nodded, “Yup. Cas ganked Lilith and toasted Ruby, extra crispy.”

“Why Ruby as well?” Bobby asked, frowning, “right place, right time?”

“Ruby and Lilith were still buddies,” nobody made comment on the undercurrent of shame and bitterness in Sam’s voice, “this demon was supposed to be Lilith’s right had man, but even she didn’t know what Ruby had to do with it. Apparently, whatever her mission was, it was top secret, Lilith’s eyes only. I mean, she could be lying, but-”

“But we were pretty sure by that point she was telling the truth,” Dean butted in pointedly.

“So where’s our lord and saviour then? Did Lilith take him down with her?”

The older Winchester sighed, “We don’t know where he is. We know that Lilith didn’t kill him, otherwise the demon bitch we snatched would have rubbed it all up in our faces. And we know he didn’t get taken to hell otherwise she _really_ would have rubbed it in our faces. So…” he gave an exaggerated shrug, “I mean, he could be anywhere in the world _and_ he can travel through time. For all we know he could be at Woodstock with a tab of acid under his tongue, listening to Janis Joplin.”

“You don’t think he’s in Heaven?” Bobby asked before taking a sip of his beer.

“Do you think Heaven would take him back?” Dean shot back at him, “I mean, we don’t know what Heaven’s plan was or what the hell it had to do with me, but Lilith could have been killed by the angels the entire time we were chasing our tails. It took one,” he held up his finger emphatically, “ _one_ angel to kill her and not even the biggest, baddest angel they had, so why go through all the effort of dragging me out of hell and trying to get me to stop her breaking the seals? I don’t know what Heaven wants or wanted, all I know we’ve not had any visits from those assholes since Cas went missing and that whatever they wanted to happen, it was bad news.”

“If bumping Lilith off and saving the world wasn’t the plan,” Bobby raised his eyebrows, “then what the hell was it?”

Dean shook his head, raising the beer to his lips, “At this point, I’m not sure I even wanna know.”

-

If there was ever a point in Dean’s life that he was a deep sleeper, he couldn’t remember it. His job was to hunt things that went bump in the night, so when things went bump in the night, he woke up. And this thing, whatever the hell it was, didn’t go bump.

It crashed.

He was kicking off the sheets and pulling the gun out from under his pillow before he could even process his thoughts and in a five seconds, he was across the room, yanking the door open. Bobby had already beat him to the chase, halfway down the hall with his rifle in his hands. He flinched as a door opened behind him and Sam emerged, his own gun in his hands, the same trained alertness alertness on his face that Dean had, in spite of his rumpled bed clothes and messy hair.

Dean nodded a silent greeting and the two followed Bobby who had already made his way down the stairs. Who or whatever it was was as silent as them. He could just make out the other two’s breathing and that was all he could hear. The house was silent. Bobby gestured to the light switch and gave them a nod. They both tightened the grips on their guns and nodded in return. There was nothing in the hallway or the front room either. It was only when they were moving down the hallway that led to the living room which led to the kitchen that they saw something amiss. It was difficult to tell what it actually was at first, but then he realised what it was. One of the legs from Bobby’s kitchen table lay busted up in the doorway of the living room, like it had all of sudden been thrown from its usual spot in the kitchen. All three exchanged glances and pressed on, slowly and quietly, scarcely making a sound.

Bobby moved in first. Dean saw his eyes widen in the light of the hallway and he nearly jumped out of his skin as his exclamation of “What in the god damn hell?” broke the tense silence.

Sam and Dean both moved forward, barely managing to squeeze through the doorway together and pushed through into the room. The kitchen looked like ground zero of a small bomb; the kitchen table was, for lack of a better word, shattered, cracked completely and all four of the legs had either buckled or been ejected from underneath the weight. The plates and glasses that they’d intended on cleaning up in the morning covered the scene in glittering shards of porcelain and glass. Dean took in the state of the room for a mere second before he saw them and he staggered back, his eyes wide. A pair of enormous black wings came from a small, crumpled form on the floor. The boy was on his stomach and the wings were protruding from between his bony shoulder blades, one pressed flat to the floor, the other pushed up against the wall, the tip of the largest feather nearly reaching the ceiling. They dwarfed the boy in size, the wingspan of them alone probably taller than him if they were to be put side by side.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathed by his side, “Is it…?”

Realisation hit Dean like a freight train and he staggered back again, a hand to his forehead, his eyes like saucers, “Jesus Christ. I think it’s Cas.”


	2. Visceral Conciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: Oof, sorry for taking so long with this one guys. Writing Cas is damn hard. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warnings: Descriptions of violence, blood and some torture
> 
> Disclaimer: Naturally, I don't own anything
> 
> Flashbacks in italics.

Dean was going to straight back to hell. A nagging voice in his head, one that sounded suspiciously like Sam, told him that he was in shock, that humour was always his go to whenever anything bad happened, that he was probably feeling a bit hysterical. Which was more than fair enough, considering Kid Icarus was half dead on the kitchen floor. It wasn’t a good enough excuse though. And he almost wanted to laugh, the nervous laughter that happened at funerals, shrill and loud, always followed by a gasp and a hand clasped over the mouth. He stared at the angel, numb and shaking and all he could think of was:

What’s black and white and red all over?

The boy’s hair was as black as his wings. And once he’d moved past the point that there were wings, real, honest to god _angel wings_ coming out of the kids’ scrawny back, he saw what state they were in. What feathers had been left intact were iridescent (if he didn’t know better, he’d say that they were almost glowing), beautiful colours shimmering in the soft pitch. The rest of his wings, however... it hurt to even look at them. It made something inside Dean ache, to see something so impressive and pure reduced to this. Dark blood, mingled with something foul, dripped from broken quills and he could see that they had been burnt, some of the feathers shrivelled up in the heat, leaving behind only the bone and raw, tender skin. In some places, it looked as though feathers had been ripped out in their entirety. And that was only his wings.

He was lying in a pool of blood that was slowly spreading, the wounds that they could see bleeding sluggishly. He was naked, lying face down and as far as he could see without moving closer, only his feet had been left unmarked. Burns, lacerations that had ripped open his skin and near black bruises spanned from his neck down to his ankles. Somebody had beat him, until the skin on his back tore open, probably until bones were broken, until he wouldn't have been able to breathe without feeling pain. What little skin that had been left unmarked was white as marble. He couldn’t guess how long it would have taken them to get him to a state where his body was more black and blue than it was white, but the long, deep cuts (which he realised probably came from a whip), had to have been relatively recent. Or at least, if they had been healing, they’d been ripped open again from the impact of falling.

“Dean! Sam!”

Both of the brothers jumped in unison, which would have been funny had it been in any situation other than this one. They realised then that they had just been staring down at the kid in a state of wonder and shock. Bobby was the only one that had moved, now standing next to the figure on the floor; his hand was closed tightly around the slender wrist, fingers pressed hard against against a vivid blue vein that stood in relief against the pale skin. He seemed all the more white, all the more fragile in the hunter’s large, calloused hand.

“He’s got a pulse, but he ain’t gonna have one much longer if we all stand here like it’s our first time at the rodeo! We need to get ‘im cleaned up and get his wounds dressed.”

“But… how do we move him?” Sam asked, gesturing helplessly towards the burnt, feathery masses coming from his back.

Bobby shot him a look which seemed to ask, ‘Are you for real?’

“We figure it out,” he ground out slowly, using a tone reserved only for the slowest of igjits, “Now get over here before he bleeds to death!”

Trying to move an eight year old kid covered in blood, with wings bigger than his actual body, who was out cold and bollock naked was definitely the weirdest bonding activity they had ever participated in. Trying to get a grip on somewhere that wasn’t slick with blood, whilst trying to keep said grip the perfect balance of firm enough that he wouldn’t fall, but not so tight that it would cause more damage, was well and truly a ball ache. It was a balancing act and all three men had to work in tandem to not jostle his wounds or let his tattered wings, which looked as though they could crumble to ash at any given moment, become any more damaged than they already where. If they had thought that getting him off the floor was a challenge, it was nothing compared to the stairs. Because the wings were so large and awkward and so horribly, horribly damaged, it made carrying him anywhere, let alone up a flight of stairs, very difficult. They couldn’t hoist him up where the joint of the wings met his back, even though it would have been the easiest place for purchase, for fear that they would snap under the pressure.

Cas, if he was indeed Cas (he would have put his life savings on it being him if he had any), was hoisted up by his top half by Dean, the crooks of his elbows under his armpits, forearms bracing against his shoulders. The wings too had to be carefully hooked over his arms; they were still spread out as though in flight, large and ungainly, though none of them wanted to try to tuck them away. It would have made the whole operation a hell of a lot easier, but they were already in such a state that making them worse was a very real possibility. He had to be held almost at arm's length for fear of crushing them against his chest. As soon as he was in his arms, the kid’s head lolled lifelessly back onto Dean’s shoulder; the weak, shallow breaths against his neck was the only reassurance that he was still alive. Sam was carrying his lower half in a quasi bridal style, one arm under his lower back, the other under his knees. The child’s blood was slowly pooling down his arms. Bobby had the awkward task of somehow keeping the large wings off the floor and yet not at an angle that could lead to a break if pushed too far. And it was like this that they had to climb. It was a long, arduous and cumbersome task. They were too busy concentrating and grunting from the exertion to say anything and they climbed up to the first floor in a deeply focused silence. None of them would admit that their arms were quivering from their efforts by the time they deposited their precious load into the bath. They took just a moment to breathe before turning to their momentous task.

They discovered through expert prodding and gently squeezes that by some small miracle, they didn’t have to reset any bones. At least four of his ribs were cracked though, and at least two of the near black bruises had definitely reached down to the bone. As suspected, his front wasn’t left untouched by his assailants, long shallow slices carving down his chest and stomach. While it wasn’t a good sign that the-kid-who-was-probably-Cas remained unconscious, Dean was still grateful for it. Disinfecting wounds was a nasty business and once you got past the nice warm water stage and moved onto the chemicals and alcohol, it was tantamount to pouring salt in an open wound. The side of the kid’s was face pressed against Dean’s stomach as Bobby slowly and carefully poured warm water over him. He ran his grimy fingers through the soft black hair, the base of his hand running across his forehead; he thought briefly, that his skin and hair felt almost brand new, baby soft. The blood turned into a diluted pink as water passed over his marble skin, then red bubbled back up again as the wounds opened once more in the fresh air. Once carefully dried off, they moved onto to disinfecting them. The kid, dead to the world, didn’t even flinch. Whilst Bobby and Dean were cleaning his back, Sam was examining his wings, evaluating the damage. None of them in the room knew anything about wings, let alone the ethereal kind, but they did know a thing or two about burns. He washed out the gunk that was clinging to the feathers and tender skin with painful attentiveness, using up every burn cream they had in the house to cover the extensive wounds.

The injuries on his front were shallow enough to need only butterfly stitches; for his back, however, they had to get out the needle. Dean had lost count of how many stitches they’d riddled him with. It looked like he had more stitches than skin; at one time, all three of them had been bent over his small, frail back, sweat dripping off their foreheads and they threaded over and over and over in a grim determined silence. Dean’s mind was blank in concentration. He couldn’t afford to think or feel. There was no time to think about what he was actually doing or just how insane this was, that he was stitching up a child’s back in Bobby’s bath tub, trying to avoid the wings that had sprouted from between his shoulder blades and that this child was most likely the very same angel he’d been trying to find for three months. The very one who had stopped the apocalypse, now somehow not in Jimmy Novak’s body, not healing instantly the way angels could and should, tortured with his corporeal wings burned to hell. If he let all those thoughts swarm up in his mind, if he actually stopped and realised what he was doing, he wouldn’t be able to carry on. So he continued to stitch, pausing occasionally to wipe his bloody fingers on his t-shirt as the digits became numb under the thin metal.

After what felt like an eternity, the stitching came to an end. Bobby cracked his back with a grimace, Sam sat down on the rim of the bath, his head sitting low between his shoulders and Dean collapsed back onto the floor, slumping against the wall opposite the bath. He closed his eyes for a few deep breaths. When he opened them, he reached out and took the slim wrist in his hand. His fingers, caked in young blood, pressed down against the vein; the pulse had become stronger and steadier, life beating against his fingertips. Even a little colour had emerged on his cheeks.

“Do you think it's really Castiel?”

Dean looked up at Sam, who had been voicing his own thoughts and then back to the boy. He was looking at the dichotomy of mortal and immortal, ethereal and mundane, incredible, impossible wings emerging from a body that was scarcely being held together by a hundred stitches. Angel blood was pumping through a human body. It had been dripping from his wings, that somehow could be burnt and torn out, that could be pulled into the physical world and inflicted with mortal wounds. Knowing angels were real was one thing, seeing their grace, seeing glass shatter just because they were saying hello in their true voice was one thing, but this just seemed impossible. He didn’t know how he he was breathing, bleeding, how he couldn’t be healing. The first time they had met, he’d shoved Ruby’s knife in his chest and he’d pulled it out like it was a splinter. So how could blood loss affect him now, how could he be out cold when angels didn’t need sleep? How could be so human and other worldly at the same time?

He didn’t say anything for a few moments, his fingers still pressed against the steady, pulsing vein. He forced himself away from thinking about questions that he couldn’t answer. The only one that he even had a hope of answering, was this: was this their angel? By the sole process of elimination, it had to be; once the party of the century had been cancelled, Heaven seemed to have bailed as fast as they could. He couldn’t think of a single angel aside from Cas that he had met that even remotely liked humanity and he was definitely the only one who liked the Winchesters. They were far too human and not nearly obedient enough for those self righteous pricks and he couldn’t see any of them rocking up on their doorstep in such a state.

“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not Zachariah,” he said with a humourless scoff.

His gaze moved to the wings again. They seemed to fill the entire room, spilling over the bath, primary feathers encroaching on the walls, dwarfing the boy that they belonged to. He thought of when he first saw them, flickering shadows emerging from behind a trench coat, dark and ominous, full of mysterious, unearthly power. It couldn’t be coincidence that these kid’s wings were as black as the shadows that had been revealed to him. Weren’t angel wings supposed to be white? Maybe they had appeared as shadows because there were actually black? This had to be him. It couldn’t be coincidence, it just couldn’t. If he believed in it, he’d say it was more like fate.

“I think it’s him. I mean… who else could it be?”

Sam shook his head in response, his eyes, too, fixed on the burnt, feathery masses. Dean stood up, stretching and grimacing as his muscles creaked in protest, “So, we got one question answered. Now we got, what, hundred and ninety-nine to go?”

“Yeah, just about,” Bobby responded dryly.

Dean scrubbed his face with the base of his palms. He was covered in blood, sweat and grime, the bathroom far too small and hot for four bodies and his muscles ached from staying in awkward positions and carrying around their comatose guest. His finger and thumb felt numb from where he had been holding the needle. He wanted a shower and a beer and to have more than two hours sleep under his belt to deal with the madness dropped into their laps. The adrenaline that had sprung him from his bed and had fueled his body this whole time had been reduced to fumes.

Ignoring the urge to sit right back down again, he said, “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

-

It took half an hour for them to wrap up his cracked ribs, dress the rest of his minor wounds and then actually get him dressed. There wasn’t a scrap of clothing on him when he arrived and they’d had to awkwardly wrestle him into a pair of Dean’s old sweat pants, in which both brothers eyes were fixed permanently on a spot on the ceiling, because even if Cas was rattling around inside his vessel, it was still weird as all hell to be dressing a kid they’d never met before. The sweat pants hung off of his slim frame, the drawstring pulled as tight as it would go, but it was definitely better than nothing. It was nice to see him not covered in his own blood, the clean white bandages hiding most of his injuries and the deathly pallor of before had faded away, leaving behind a more rosy tint to his skin.

Dean carried him into a spare bedroom that Bobby had set up whilst they were taking care of Cas, though even that was a two man job, the wings needing support so they weren’t pulled across the floor.

“I hope he can make these disappear when he wakes up,” Sam said disgruntled as he awkwardly walked backwards, his hands full of black feathers. Cas was slumped against Dean, his back to Sam, his face pressed against his shoulder, legs hanging limply off Dean's hips. The hunter had been an expert in carrying children to bed since he was six years old, so while the wings did make it a bit more difficult, it felt natural to have someone small and sleeping in his arms, “he’s gonna knock over everything in the house.”

“I don’t think a bomb would wake him up at this point,” Dean replied, shuffling with Sam into the spare room, “if being a human pin cushion doesn’t do the trick, I don’t know what will.”

“Yeah, but, do angels even feel pain?” Sam asked, now carefully lowering the wings in time with Dean as he placed him on the bed, “you said when you first met him, you stabbed him and he didn’t even flinch.”

“I think we might have to throw the rulebook out on this one, Sam. Last time I checked, angels vessels don’t grow real wings either” Dean stood back and frowned, “hey, does anything look off to you?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, “Are you serious? You’ve just put an angel to bed,” he looked anyway and his face fell, “Crap.”

“Yep. His wings are too big for the damn bed,” he looked at Sam grimly, wishing more than anything that they could just leave him and go to bed. But, to put it lightly, the wings were fucked and leaving them unsupported could not be a good idea. He didn’t even want to think what would happen if he turned over in the night, an image of the joints between the shoulder blades bending and snapping at a wrong angle, “Jesus,” he groaned, “I just wanna sleep. What are we gonna do man? He’ll need like a king size bed on each side.”

Sam thought for a moment, “Well… we could… make him a nest?” he suggested tentatively.

Dean turned slowly to stare at him, his sleep deprived eyes seemed to be asking if Sam had finally gone bye-bye, “Hey. I’m trying to be serious here and you wanna build a pillow fort? We’re not sorority girls, Sam! Do you wanna have a pillow fight in our panties too?”

Sam’s face went through varying shades of surprise, irritation and disgust, “Dude, I did not need that image in my head. And have you got a better idea?”

Alright. So Dean didn’t have a better idea, but the thought of building a nest, a freaking nest for a topless angel child was just one dose of crazy too much for today.

“Okay, so I don’t have a better idea,” he snapped, “but come on, Sam! He’s not a bird!”

“He has wings!” Sam cried, his voice going an octave in his incredulity, “Dude, come on, he’s been shedding feathers for crying out loud. For all we know, angels could have nests.”

“They don’t sleep, what would they need nests for?!”

“I don’t know, but unless we can figure something else out, we’re dragging every cushion, pillow and mattress we got in here and making one.”

Dean looked from Sam to the sleeping boy on the bed and heaved a sigh of defeat. Why was he cursed with a geek brother who happened to be right most of the time? It made his job of being the cool, superior older brother a lot harder, “Alright,” he sighed, “alright, fine. We’ll make the pillow fort… but only if we play truth or dare after,” Sam shot him one of his many incredible bitch faces and Dean smirked, “come on man, thought you wanted the sleepover experience?”

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam shot at him as he left the room in search of supplies.

“Bitch!” Dean called out after him.

They spent the first fifteen or so minutes bringing in blankets, sofa cushions and Sam’s mattress- _“Why are you taking my mattress, Dean?” Because you’re the one who wanted to build a pillow fort, Sam.” “It’s a nest, dickwad.” “Well I don’t see any twigs or branches, soo, it’s a pillow fort”_ \- into the spare room. Then Cas was back in Dean’s arms as Sam heaved the other mattress off the bed frame and onto the floor.

“What do you think happened to him?” Sam asked, carefully trying to direct the fall of the mattress so it would land next to the other.

“You got me man,” Dean looked down at the kid drooling on his shoulder. His hand rubbing his back gently without even realising, his fingers carefully moving in between the long rows of stitches, “it’s weird, it’s… I just don’t get it. You know, apart from looking like Angel from the X-Men, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was human. His vessel isn’t healing, he’s asleep, he’s breathing. You know, Cas didn’t actually breathe when he was in Jimmy’s body, not really. He didn’t need to. It was actually kind of creepy.”

“You sure that that is a vessel?” Sam asked, watching the mattress fall to the floor with a satisfying fwhump.

Dean blinked in confusion, “Wh-... Sam what are you talking about?”

“Well…” Sam frowned, “maybe… maybe it’s like with Anna?”

“You mean… you think he fell?”

“Yeah. Only he managed to keep his grace. Or a bit of it. I mean, Anna came to Earth as a baby, it wasn’t like she was occupying another person's body, she was that body, like you and me. There was no other soul in there, just her. Maybe that’s what happened to Cas?”

“And because he managed to keep his grace, his wings stuck around and you’re left with Cupid,” it sounded pretty insane, but like he had said earlier, all rules were temporarily suspended. Everything they once knew about angels was off the table until Cas woke up and explained what the hell was going on. It was the best theory they had so far. He moved over and set the kid carefully face down on the mattresses, pushing a pillow under his head, “it would also explain why his injuries are still here. Maybe someone tortured him as an angel and when he became human, it all stayed, like his wings.”

“Why would someone do this?” Sam asked, sadness tingeing his words.

Dean didn’t reply straight away, pulling a blanket up to his shoulder blades, tucking it underneath the edges of his wings. He had been trying to avoid that question this whole time, cataloging with forced detachment the welts, burns, lashes, bruises, the cracks in his ribs, the bruises in his bones, the bare patches of wings where they had been ripped out, sometimes taking the entire quill, other times leaving broken bloody half broken stumps of feathers. It would have had to have been something more powerful than Castiel to do this. A demon, maybe? Someone higher up than Lilith? To their knowledge, the only one higher up than Lilith was Old Nick himself. He was trying to avoid the possibility that this was Heaven’s doing, that his own brothers and sisters had torn him up into shreds because things hadn’t gone their way, like all-powerful brats throwing a tantrum. He remembered what Castiel had said to him: _“I do not have faith that Heaven’s plan is just any longer”_. He knew that angels could be real heartless bastards, but they had to have some semblance of loyalty to each other surely, some sort of familial love. To punish him for ruining heaven’s plan was one thing, to do this, to torture him again and again, to burn his wings, it… it was sacrilege. It had to be some kind of blasphemy, there had to be rules in heaven against this kind of shit. The very thought of him doing something like this to Sam, it made his heart pump ice. He didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to imagine Cas, especially in this form, being tortured just for doing the right thing.

“Someone wanted the apocalypse to happen. Someone other than Lilith and maybe they found the person who pulled the plug on it,” he blinked rapidly and swallowed, “I mean, it was kind of the last thing he did on Earth. It has to be because of that.”

If Sam saw his brief stir of emotion, he didn’t comment. He was arranging cushions and bundled up blankets underneath the large wings so that the weight of them didn’t strain the joints between his shoulder blades, “How could-” stopped himself, biting his lip, “this is messed up, man. Really messed up. He’s been missing for three months.”

That statement made a pit yawn in Dean’s stomach. Had this been happening to him that whole time? What if he had been dragged to hell and for him it had been thirty years? Maybe it was even longer in Heaven, “Don’t underestimate him, Sam,” he said with forced confidence, “he’s stronger than he looks. It wouldn’t have been all that time.”

Even Dean, who had unwavering faith in Castiel, couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

-

Castiel had wondered once if angels could survive being alone. It was when Gabriel had left them, not fallen, just… gone, slipped away from Heaven somehow like a mirage, shimmering out of existence. The connection to heaven, the precious golden thread that tethered all angels to each other and home hadn’t been severed from Gabriel, but he stifled it, becoming voluntarily deaf and blind to his family’s presence; in short, he was as good as dead. This act baffled Castiel. To be an angel was to be a part of Heaven and so to be separated from the bond they had all had since they were fledglings, to willingly never again feel the presence of your own kind and forsake your family, would be to go against your very nature. Yet Gabriel did just that, an act of insanity and rebellion that rocked the very foundations of Heaven and stirred up a hoard of doubt filled questions in young Castiel’s mind to which no answers were ever given. How could an angel’s grace not wither away and sputter out of life from the sheer loneliness? Even if you had kept your grace, would you still be an angel? Angels were not designed to be lonely creatures, by their very nature they were intrinsically bound to one another. He had assumed, in a rather romantic and innocent way, that falling angels tore out their grace because they if they were grounded on Earth and could still remember their brothers and sisters, that they wouldn’t be able to stand the loneliness. As he grew up, he learned that it was torn out so their former siblings wouldn’t be able to hunt them down and destroy them.

He never did get the chance to find out what happened to Gabriel; it would have horrified and confused him further if he had discovered that his brother had been transformed from one of the highest and holiest angels of their order into a force of chaos and destruction, a blasphemous parody of their Father, punishing the wicked and drowning himself with sin whilst he did. It had taken centuries for Gabriel to succumb to the charms humanity; for Castiel, it hadn’t even taken a year. For the former archangel, he had fallen in lust with humanity, gorging himself with its sins, revelling in forbidden fruit to spite his quarreling siblings. For Castiel, he had fallen in love with humanity for very different, but still very sinful reasons. Choice and friendship, both offered to him freely and without question, kindness when he hadn’t deserved it, trust from the very ones who he had deceived and manipulated. Forgiveness and mercy, where his siblings would have given him punishment, and the pride to presume that his thoughts and feelings mattered, that he could and should be allowed to make a choice in matters that were none of his concern. He had done what he thought centuries ago would be impossible; he had gone against his nature. He disobeyed, rebelled and chose to go against Heaven for the sake of the Earth. He had only been trying to do the right thing, but to his family, it was treason. Death would have been a fitting punishment, but the decision of Castiel’s punishment had fallen to Michael. And Michael, in his wrath and fury, discovered a twisted sense of humour and a deep vein of cruelty. He had betrayed his family for humanity, so humanity was exactly what he deserved.

When Castiel had navigated the mortal plane with Jimmy as his vessel, it was not the same as experiencing the world as a human. To put it crudely, it was like wearing a glove; everything was filtered through Jimmy and because of this, his senses had been dulled. Now though, his filter had been lost and the world around him became more vivid and real than it had ever been before, his senses sharpened to a point of painful clarity. And when Castiel awoke, it hit him all at once. He was like a man pulled out of an abyss and forced into the daylight, only it wasn’t just like being pulled out of darkness, it was like being pulled into existence, like coming through the other side of a black hole. Every single sensation was suddenly felt with dazzling clarity and it was beyond overwhelming. It was too much for Castiel to even think about what it implied, that it meant that his grace was now siphoned to human blood and sinew, that Jimmy was truly gone and this body entirely new and entirely was his own. He couldn’t think. His senses blotted out all thought, he had never felt so much in his entire existence. He didn’t know how humans could cope with hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, not to mention feeling, feeling everything not only in their own bodies, but in the world they inhabited, all at once. He could sense multiple temperatures in the room, the sticky warmth of the blankets wrapped round his legs compared to the chill on his bare shoulders, the softness of the mattress and the firmness of it under his body, even the weight and texture of the blankets, it was one fraction of all of the information he was taking in at once.

Then, as he moved, a new sensation overcame all the rest and for one moment, his mind became numb, white, obliterated and incapable of thought. Pain. It had seeped into every part of his being, it was in his very veins. It was sharp and visceral, he could feel it right down to his bones. His whole body was battered, bruised and burned, he could feel the sharp sting of the shallow carvings on his chest, the raw agony that the whips had left behind on his back. He didn’t know that his ribs had been cracked, but he still felt the sharp pain in his chest, the tightness around his lungs as though someone had them in a tight fist. He couldn’t move his legs without a jolting pain searing through the bone and every muscle in his body ached to a nauseating degree. After a few minutes of forced, heavy breathing, his stomach on the threat of rebellion, he tried instead, to move his upper half and he nearly screamed.

His wings were on fire-

_“Michael, no!”_

He could feel the holy oil drench his feathers-

 _“Brother, please,_ please _!”_

Zachariah had held him down-

_“Why not, Castiel? You will not be needing them any more.”_

And Michael had set him ablaze.

He didn’t move, his eyes wide open, staring down at the pillow, his ragged breathing like sandpaper against his eardrums. His wings. His brothers had burned his wings. They had cast him out. And then he felt it, it came over him in a wave, the agony of his wings as though they had been relit and the hole, the great yawning chasm in his being where Heaven and family and everything he was used to be. He moaned like a wounded animal, low and despairing, his hands pawing weakly at his chest, as though he could reach claw through his mortal cage and reach the hole in his grace. His connection to Heaven had been irrevocably severed and he remembered what had happened, remembered his grace spilling across the night sky in a glimmering sheen and the feeling of home falling forever out of his reach. For the first time there was nothing, no one, only himself, not even Jimmy’s soul was with him. Castiel was alone and the realisation of it made his heart bleed ice, loneliness was entirely new to him and it was colder than space, it was blacker than the pits of Hell. Slowly, arduously, with every movement he made bringing him pain, he managed to move onto his hands and knees because he had to move, he had to do something, if he didn’t that icy blackness in his heart would consume him entirely. Every inch of his body seemed to scream in protest and he was forced to pause, his breath coming in short pants. He watched teardrops and sweat drip onto the mattress, a miniature rainfall. He knew what this meant, the mortal plane in sharp clarity, the aches and pains of his body, his sweat, his tears, he knew it. _Human._ The word lurked beneath the currents of his thoughts, threatening to breach the surface, but he forced himself to ignore it, certain that insanity lingered there and there was still something he had to do before allowing himself to come undone.

His wings were far larger than the rest of his body, the joints that had sprouted from between his shoulders groaning with the weight of them. His hand trembled violently as he reached for them, unable to look, terrified of what he might see. As it turned out, what he felt was enough. It was a miracle he had any feathers left; the smaller ones had fizzled away completely, only the tiny splintered quills remaining. Some of the larger ones had splintered off, leaving behind half broken quills. He moved his hand over the wing as far as it would reach, nearly pulling the joint out of its socket, his breathing becoming frantic as he surveyed the damage; fistfulls of feathers had been wrenched out and he could feel his brothers claw marks where beautiful down had once been and there were large patches of skin, featherless and raw that were beginning to scab, the burnt scaly texture flaking against his fingertips. A feather came loose between his fingers and before he could even look at it, it crumbled to ash in his grip.

Castiel pressed a hand to his mouth, small, frantic gasps dampening his palm. He could feel himself unravelling, he was falling to pieces, but he managed to pull his wings back into the ethereal plane, freeing his new body of the weight, before collapsing backwards, pulling his legs from underneath him, awkward and graceless. The horrible ugly truth that he had been willfully ignoring finally made itself heard. He was human. Tears were streaming down his cheeks again and he began to cry, a small broken sound at first that he was trying to stifle, but then it grew louder and soon he was wailing, his wordless howls calling for home, the sound a crescendo of grief and pain. He was abandoned, never to return home, his family had left him on Earth and yet he hadn’t been given the relief of forgetting, he could still remember them, he still knew who he was and what he was supposed to be and it was agony, it was worse than the oil that had scorched his wings, it was worse than anything. Beneath his sorrow, a red sea of hatred and fury that had been boiling and seething suddenly broke and sadness temporarily gave way to indignant rage and his wails fissured into a scream. How could they have left him behind? How could they hate him so much that they destroyed what he was, turned him into a creature they despised? They hated him so much that they left him on Earth, never to be seen by them again, never allowed to grace the halls of home. Their rejection and cruelty were like salt in his wounds and he began to claw at his head, screaming to the sky. They were supposed to love each other. They were supposed to be a family. How could they not yearn him the way he did them, had they already forgotten his name? Did they not miss their brother? His voice cracked as he paused for breath and when he tried once again to screech, the rage that had seized him so tightly loosened its grip and all he could manage were a few, breathless gasps, which hitched into sobs. As quickly as it had come, the waves of anger evaporated into mist and cold sadness pooled in its stead.

He fell back onto the mattress, covering his face with his arms, weeping bitterly. His heart was being torn to shreds, the life he had once lived crumbling before his very eyes and it's wake, a void, desolate, stretched. He had nothing left. All of his life, he had obeyed, he had served holy purpose, he was a willing, obedient soldier; yet now there was no mission, no orders to follow, nobody left to obey. He didn't know how to live without being told to. Freedom and choice lay before him, once so appealing and tempting, now filled him with terror. He had only ever acted on his own impulse and judgement once and it had cost him everything. The thought of unknown consequences with no safety net of obedience was horrifying. What was he going to do? He was utterly powerless, with burnt wings and a sliver of grace, a bastard child of Heaven and Earth that neither would claim. He was nobody. He was nothing. He had no more use, not even to humanity. Whatever life was left for him, he would spend it alone. Not even his own kind wanted him, why would there be anybody on Earth who would?

Castiel was drowning in his pain, in self loathing and loneliness and anguish. It wiped from his mind all logic and reason, ruining him beyond thought and memory. In the wake of his loss and in his rivers of tears, his last mission had been forgotten. He had forgotten about his search for safety and he had no idea that he had been successful. That is, until hands, calloused and warm, slid under his arms and cupped his cheeks, collecting the tears that pooled there.

He stopped crying.

He stopped breathing all together.

“Cas?”

He didn’t move, not daring to breathe, not daring to hope.

“It’s Dean, Cas. That is you, right?”

Castiel made a wordless noise, neither a sob nor a laugh, but a sound of immense joy, sadness and relief. He pulled his arms away from his face and saw Dean by his side, leaning over him slightly, rough palms still dwarfing his face, his green eyes lit with emotion. It was the best thing that Castiel had ever seen. He stared at him, his red rimmed eyes red wide, like he was seeing him for the first time. He had been despised and punished for what had felt like an eternity, his time in Heaven stretching into decades. Their cruelty had been insidious, corroding all self worth and breeding within him a loathing for who he had become. He could never regret what he had done and there was never any doubt in his mind that saving mankind was the right thing to do; still, it was in his very nature to obey and by choosing, by giving into the temptation of free will, he had transformed himself into something monstrous and unnatural. He was an abomination. He was something strange and new, human and yet not, a mortal shell with cosmic power running through its veins. He was a creature even his own family couldn’t find within themselves to redeem. Yet Dean was gazing at him, concern and fondness and a whole host of other emotions playing on his face. He was being treated with kindness, for the first time in years. He wasn’t hated. He wasn’t going to be punished. He had found Dean, after everything he had been through, against all odds; he had become tiny and broken, less than a shadow of what he once was, but he had found his friend. He was with Dean and he was safe. He felt the corners of his mouth tug, pulling upwards and dimpling his cheeks; his first smile, tremulous and tearful, but nevertheless beaming with joy.

“Cas?”

His hands rose and he clung to Dean’s wrists and nodded emphatically.

Dean’s face broke into a smile and he heaved a small sigh, “Yeah,” he said quietly, “that’s what I thought. I had to check though, you’re looking pretty different than when I last saw you, buddy.”

“Dean.”

He had said his name. He had and yet the sounds that came from his mouth was meaningless gibberish. He tried to say Dean’s name, but his mouth couldn’t form the words. His smile cracked and he tried again, but all he heard was a high pitched babbling coming from his mouth. He had forgotten that all humans were taught to speak; he was now more human than angel and he hadn’t had a single lesson. He tried to say his name, again and again and again, yet he didn’t know how to form the letters, he couldn’t bring his thoughts into sound. It wasn’t long before his efforts devolved into a hysterical yammering, the babbling accompanied by panicked sobs and he was being swept up into Dean’s arms, cradled to his chest, a hand pressing his head to a firm shoulder. There was a time when his true form would have towered over any human and set their eyes ablaze, when his voice could rupture eardrums and shatter glass; now he fit easily in Dean’s lap, held snugly in his arms and the hunter seemed unaffected by his yowling. Having no point of reference before, he had no idea what he looked like and he hadn’t even taken into consideration what he looked like, what his age would be. Now he realised; not only was he human, but he was a very small human. A child.

He was certain that if he hadn't been crushed against Dean's warm, solid form, if the man hadn't been anchoring him, he would have drifted into the unforgiving seas of madness. He could scarcely handle the concept of even being human, but to be a child on top of that, to be small and voiceless after centuries of being a creature of power and the cosmos and to have his mortal tongue incapable of speech, useful only for braying like an animal, to have lost more than he could have even thought he could lose, it was too much. He broke, when he thought he had already been broken, when he thought that there was nothing left to lose.

He started to scream again, because what else was there for him to do, when all of his thoughts and emotions were caged within him, festering and bubbling, straining to be free with no skill available to do so? His hands, small and tender, clung to Dean with every ounce of his strength and he screamed and cried as loud and as long as he could. And the hunter’s grip never faltered, only tightened around his shivering form; words rumbling in his chest, but Castiel never heard them, drowned by his own sounds of grief. He sucked in a deep breath that rattled unpleasantly in his chest and upon exhaling, somehow got caught in his throat. His screeching was cut short and soon his panicked sobs morphed into equally panicked coughing, but Castiel didn’t even know the word for it. He recognised the sound, but the feeling of it was entirely new, the way his throat constricted and convulsed of its own accord. He had seen humans cough before and it didn’t look pleasant, but it had never seemed as petrifying as this.

Upon taking a desperate, wheezing breath, Dean erupted, an unintelligible roar that thundered in his chest, startling him and making him cough even harder. He heard something thudding and suddenly, new hands were upon him, larger than Dean’s, dwarfing the side of his face entirely. Something was pushing against his mouth, something foreign.

“Castiel? Have some water buddy. Trust me, it’ll help.”

The human body was so very mysterious and wondrous. Castiel had never drunk anything before in his life and yet when water was tipped into his mouth, his body knew what to do before he could even think, his head tilting back, his tongue and throat instinctively gulping the water down. The flow of water ceased and when he inhaled, the raspiness and frightening choking that had been constricting his airways had left and he was left basking in the intoxicating feeling of his lungs filling with air. He forgot everything for a moment, caught up in experiencing one of the wonders of human biology for the first time; and when he exhaled, reality came crashing down upon him. He sagged with exhaustion and listed to the side, collapsing against Dean, whose arms came to themselves around his form once more. He became attuned to his body again as the adrenaline was drained from his system, feeling how grimy his face was, covered in unfamiliar fluids on his cheeks and under his nose, how swollen and sore his eyes felt, how every inch of his body ached and stung and throbbed. His eyes focused on who was in front of him and he recognised the person. Once he had seen him as an untrustworthy piece in a cosmic chess game he had been forced to play, the Boy with Demon Blood; now all he saw was Sam, concerned and attentive, kind and gentle, all the good attributes that he had always known were there, but had been forced to dismiss. Sam, who he would have allowed to be Lucifers puppet. Sam, another friend he had betrayed.

He tried to say his name, he could hear it in his head, but his mouth wouldn’t co-operate. He babbled uselessly again and tears stung his eyes. He reached out and grasped at Sam’s t-shirt, a pathetic whimper sounding from the back of his throat. He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to thank them both and apologise for everything he had done, to explain how he had become so powerless and useless, but he couldn’t.

“Castiel?”

Sam leaned forward, a large paw of a hand closing over his, squeezing, gentle and cautious. His eyes moved from Castiel to Dean, “Is he alright?”

Dean’s arms moved tighter around him, his cheek pressing against Castiel’s hair damp with sweat, “I don’t know, Sammy. I don’t know.”


End file.
